


The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night

by pansexualfandommess (redvelvetrose), SincereJester



Series: Winter Is Here [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Sandor Clegane Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18886969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvelvetrose/pseuds/pansexualfandommess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereJester/pseuds/SincereJester
Summary: The night before the battle of Winterfell, Sansa Stark finds herself seeking the warmth of Sandor Clegane's company. Can be read as a oneshot.





	The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night

_There are some dogs which, when you meet them, remind you that, despite thousands of years of manmade evolution,  
every dog is still only two meals away from being a wolf._  
\- NEIL GAIMAN, Good Omens

Sansa took a deep breath, watching the cloudy vapor swirl above her face. She and Theon had bid each other good night near an hour ago, although both agreed that there was little actually good about it. Despite the desperate need for rest before the battle to come, Sansa could not still her mind long enough to find any semblance of sleep. A thousand thoughts, one for each blade of the Great Grass Sea, tumbled through her mind. The “what if”s and “why”s and “why not”s all tangled together in a scrambling heap, like the gruesome rat king Septa Mordane used to threaten Arya with when they were little.

In exasperation, she rose from her bed and pulled on her fur-lined robe, pausing to poke viciously at the fire. This was stupid. A battle could begin at any moment and she should be getting every moment of rest that she could, but the restless energy creeping through her simply would not let her. Pacing her room wouldn’t do any good. A walk outside could help; the cold air might be enough to convince her body and mind to retreat back to the warmth of her bed for some rest. With a sigh, she took her cloak from its tidy little hook and clasped it across her shoulders and slipped on her soft shoes. There was no need for her boots; she did not plan to venture into the yard or beyond the keep.

She left her room, heading down the hallway with no real destination in mind other than ‘outside’, which was easily done by heading to one of the towers and climbing up the stairs to the battlements. As children, it had usually been Arya venturing up to these high walkways. Sansa had always minded her parents and Septa Mordane when told not to go up there because it was ‘too cold and too dangerous’. Now, though, the height seemed comforting, even if it was quite cold. Pulling her cloak closer, she walked calmly along the wall, running her fingers along the carved stones.  
South. East. North. As she walked along the North-facing wall, heading West back to the tower she’d come from, she noticed two dark shapes slumped opposite each other in the path. Two of the soldiers, no doubt, keeping watch as best they might. A large chunk of their forces, the Unsullied and the Dothraki in particular, were not accustomed to the biting cold of the North, so she would not begrudge them the instinct to bear down against the wind. 

“Lady Stark,” one looked up and greeted her, one eye shining in the torchlight. “Beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, standing up. Not one of the Unsullied or Dothraki and not a Wildling either. This man was of the North, but she didn’t quite recognize him. 

“It’s no trouble, I assure you,” she said, the barest hint of a smile on her face. “You’re of the North, are you not? I’m sorry, but I don’t recall your name.” 

“No reason you should, Milady. I was formerly the Lord of Blackhaven: Beric Dondarrion. I followed your father’s command once upon a time. Been with the Brotherhood Without Banners since he died,” he inclined his head. 

“Yes, of course. Jon told me you were with him when he went beyond the Wall to fetch a wight as proof of their existence.” She looked down at her feet briefly. “I should thank you for your help with that. I understand it was a perilous trip.” Sansa dipped her chin to him respectfully. “I am grateful you were there to help Jon.” 

The other person on the battlement had turned his head away from her; shoulders slumped down in a vain attempt to make himself appear smaller. Sansa thought she recognized something familiar in his silhouette. She blinked in the torchlight, just barely recognizing him. "Ser Clegane." she said, though it came out as a question. 

The hulking a man peered out at her from the stringy curtain of hair draped over one eye. "Not 'ser'," he growled in acknowledgment. It had been far too long since he had seen Sansa Stark; to meet again on the eve of a battle that neither of them were likely to survive was not what he would have considered ideal. 

"My apologies; I meant no offense," she replied in a gentle voice. "I was under the impression that you were dead. I am glad to find that untrue." The words were cold, but her tone was genuine. She'd heard much from Arya about Sandor Clegane. He had protected her from falling back into Lannister hands and had tried his damnedest to return Arya to the Starks, only to be thwarted at every turn. And, of course, she remembered how he had protected her, a caged bird in King's Landing; how he had tried so hard to get her to escape with him. 

"Not dead yet." He replied sardonically. "Might not be long, though." He had once called her 'little bird', but she was no longer a little, prattling thing. He couldn’t recall her mother, but Sansa had grown from that pampered, innocent girl to a beautiful, cold, and self-possessed woman. She was just as lovely as he remembered, with eyes the color of the summer sky, hair as bright as autumn leaves, and skin like the flesh of fresh apples. The torches cast long shadows, but he could see the bitter effect of something she had experienced in her expression; she had that placid mask that settled over a person’s face even after the acrid stench of pain and cruelty had gone. _Live long enough,_ he thought, _and you can see that everyone wears it._

The gruff, rasping tone of his voice slid over her spine, and not unpleasantly, she realized with some surprise. Sandor had always been hardened of heart. As a girl, she had mistaken it for simply being bad-tempered. It was only with age that she realized his apparent 'hatefulness' was a shield. "It is difficult to believe we have any chance, but I suppose any chance is better than none at all," she replied with a soft sigh. "I take it neither of you can sleep either?" she asked, noting the wine skin they were apparently passing back and forth. She held a hand out to Sandor, clearly asking for the skin herself. 

He handed it over without comment. That was something else that had changed with time: Sansa had been not much more than a child, and barely drank wine at all, when she had arrived at King's Landing. "There'll be no sleep for anyone tonight, I reckon," he replied. "The lucky fuckers will freeze to death first; the rest of us will just wait around, shivering and trying not to piss ourselves." 

"What a cheerful thought," Sansa said dryly, taking a sip from the skin. The wine was acidic and thin, not the Dornish red she'd had before, which was sweeter. The tannins made her mouth feel dry, almost stripped. "How do you drink this? It's one step above boot polish," she grimaced, passing it back. "Come on, we have better wine in the store room. If you're going to drink before a fight, you should at least have decent wine." 

Sandor shot a look at Beric, who simply waved him on after taking the wine skin from him. "Go on," Beric urged him. "I'll finish off the boot polish; I'm used to it, anyway." 

"You've drunk most of it already," Sandor remarked, getting up. "Keep your blade near and wits as clear as you can." He didn't regret leaving the man: the promise of better wine and shelter, not to mention far better company, was too welcome. 

Sansa, sure-footed in the darkness, led him down the stairs and through the great hall, her steps quiet in deference to anyone who might actually be asleep. “In here. Father always kept the wine cellar behind lock and key to keep my brothers and Theon out of it. From within the folds of her cloak, she produced an iron ring with several keys on it. She unlocked the door and led them both inside. The lantern perched on the wall was quickly lit so they could see at last. Racks and racks of various wines lined the walls; several large barrels of beer and ale stood neatly in the middle, along with smaller, somewhat dusty barrels that presumably held spirits meant to sit untouched for long periods of time. 

Sansa stepped to one of the wine racks, running her fingers over the dusty bottles before selecting one and turning it to look at the label. “Here. Dornish strongwine. Red as blood. I read somewhere that this is the one favored by Dornish warriors before battle. Courage without the cloud, or something like that,” she explained, holding the bottle out to him. 

He took the bottle from her and uncorked it. Not seeing any other drinking vessels in which to pour it, he lifted the bottle to her in a casual toast and took a long sip. It was excellent wine, far better than what he had drunk in a while, and he nodded his appreciation, offering her the bottle. 

She offered him a slight smile in return, taking the bottle and sipping as well. "Mm, much better. And it would be even better by a fireplace. Come," she said, reaching to tug gently at his sleeve. "The fire's built up in my room. We'll be warm there. Although it will ruin any ambition you have of being one of the 'lucky fuckers' who freezes to death tonight." The swearing felt a bit odd to her, though it wasn't as if she'd never sworn before. She just usually did it in her head or at least when no one else was around to hear her. 

"Shouldn't you be hiding with the others in the catacombs?" he remarked, not entirely happy with the idea of the fireplace. While it would be warmer, he instinctively shrank away from any kind of open flame. Nor was he eager to traipse up to a lady's chambers, until he recalled that Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell now, and occupied the master chambers.

"I'm not going down there until absolutely necessary. It would not do for the Lady of Winterfell to be seen cowering like a mouse. I have to at least look like I'm confident in my forces," she jested, taking another sip of wine. Another tug at his sleeve and she was able to draw him out of the cellar, locking the door behind them. She led him back through the hall up another set of stairs to her room. Luckily, the fire was still built up and she thoughtfully pressed the protective grate over it, making sure it was in place. Setting the wine on the little table where she normally kept her needlework, she moved one of the chairs a bit further away from the fire. "Come on, have a seat. Your stature is quite something, left unchecked,” she remarked with a smile, careful not to wound his pride in her haste to enjoy his company. These were the largest quarters in Winterfell, yet Sandor's towering form made them feel almost crowded.

He settled his massive bulk onto the offered seat, embodying his nickname curling up after a long hunt. He hadn't missed that she had moved the chair far enough away from the fire for his comfort but still within the warmth, a gesture he greatly appreciated. Sansa truly had grown into the clever noblewoman he had seen only glimpses of years before; she would be an excellent leader and Warden of Winterfell...if they survived the onslaught of the frigid darkness and the creatures within it. 

“That’s better,” she nodded with approval, moving the other chair to match his own. They were still within reach of each other, her seat placed strategically between his and the fire. She raised the bottle to her lips and took another long sip and then passed it to him. “Arya said she left you for dead on a hillside.” He took the bottle from her slowly, as if she’d taken him by surprise. “How did you manage to survive and be in hardy enough shape to be here?” she asked gently. “Unless, of course, you would rather not say.” She knew that Sandor was not generally a talkative person unless he was asked direct questions. In the past, she would have been terrified to ask him anything. What does one ask of the King’s dog, after all? But now, she was no longer a timid child and he was no longer anyone’s dog. 

Sandor drank deep before replying. "Found by a wandering Septon, of sorts. He took it upon himself to heal me and attempt to find out my true purpose or something." After he took another sip, he continued. "Actually liked the man; he didn't peddle in that spiritual shit so many of the others do; didn't claim to know all the answers; nothing like that. Faith didn’t make any difference for him, in the end." 

“I am sorry for your loss,” she said quietly, her earnest sympathy gleaming in her eyes in the low light. Although she had been raised in both the Old Ways and the New, she found more peace in solitary prayer than in the great ceremonial prayers held in septs. “I never really paid much mind to septons and their sermons. I prefer to commune with the gods at my own pace.” She took a deep breath, swallowing hard. “I’ve prayed for so many; for my family, for the North. For you.” 

Sandor’s brows knitted in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. "For me? Why would you waste your prayers on me?" he asked. "I'm not worth two shits, let alone your prayers, Lady Stark." He shook his head. "Didn't help that septon, either. He's as dead as any, along with his followers. We’ll be dead soon, too." 

Sansa pressed on, maintaining her cool demeanor. "I prayed that you would survive. After the Blackwater." She admitted, looking down at her hands. _He is no true knight, but he saved me just the same. Save him if you can,_ she had prayed to The Mother. _And gentle the rage inside of him._ It seemed to her that some of his rage had indeed been gentled. “I hoped that, after freeing yourself from the Lannisters, you would find…some sort of peace. I suppose you did, for a little while at least. And now you’re here,” - she hoped she did not sound too young in saying so - “where you’re most needed.” 

"Don't know about needed," Sandor grunted. "As for contented...well, I'm alive. I've still got unfinished business elsewhere, and I'll be content to live long enough to finish it, if I'm able .” His expression changed as he paused and some barely concealed pain came to play in his eyes. “The Blackwater, now...I should have taken you away with me. You'd have avoided a lot of unpleasantness if I had." Another drink of the wine; there was very little left in the bottle, but enough to wash away some of the lingering bitterness. "Regrets are a waste of time at this point, anyway." 

Sansa looked at him thoughtfully. She had been too young, before, to see how he had cared for her, under that rough exterior, but there with him, in front of the fire, the night before they might both lose their lives…"I made mistakes and lived through them. I've grown from them, however painful they were. I can't say I'm grateful for those who've hurt me. But they are dead and I am not." She shrugged. "I thought Ramsey's death in particular was very fitting." 

"Oh?" Sandor asked. Death and killing were close companions to him, and he knew when someone wanted to revel in the details. He certainly had no love for the Boltons, Ramsey Bolton in particular.  
"I tied him to a chair in the kennels. He'd been bragging about not feeding his hounds for seven days so that they would be more vicious on the hunt. He assured me that his hounds would never turn on him.” A small smile crossed her lips, one that only those who knew her would recognize as her own brand of viciousness. “They started with his face.” 

She reclaimed the bottle from him, finishing the last remaining dregs. “A Hound tried to protect me before. I didn't know where you were, so I had to make do with the hounds I had.” 

He simply stared at her for a long moment before bursting into a gravelly laugh. There it was: the direwolf beneath that dainty noble facade! The Starks had a wicked sense of irony that surfaced when one least expected it, and in this case, he enjoyed it all the more. "Got what he deserved, then? Good for you." 

She'd never really heard him laugh before, not in actual amusement. The sound was rather pleasant she decided. What other pleasing sound might he make with the right catalyst? Her blush deepened. 

He grew solemn again. "I really did mean to bring you back to your family. I may have told Arya that I was planning on ransoming her, but I never would have given her over to the Lannisters or anyone else who might harm. Would have been the same for you; I would have gotten you back to your brother and mother." 

"I know. But, if you had, I would likely have been at the wedding where my family was massacred. I would be dead for certain," she said, her smile softening as she met his gaze. 

"Hm." Sandor eyed the now-empty bottle. The Starks were decent, and that was saying a lot in this day and age, but they were of the North: they were often as cold as their surroundings, and always pragmatic. Sansa must have endured more than most to have become what she had. Oddly enough he found that attractive: it was a strength he could respect, and he certainly understood seeking justice and vengeance against the cruel bastards that had done her wrong. 

“I wonder if… if I might ask a favor of you?” The words seem to come out of her mouth before she’d even properly thought them through. “Despite all hopes for the dawn, this could well be our last night alive. And there are things I would…” Sansa cleared her throat, “-regret missing out on.” 

"Anyone else you're regretting not killing?" Sandor remarked wryly. "If he's here, all you need to do is wait a while." 

“No, I think I’ve executed everyone I need to thus far,” she shook her head. “I meant something… quite different.” She stood, beginning to pace before the fire, looking at the flames. If she looked at him, she might lose her nerve. A deep breath. Two. She turned, cheeks burning and strode to his chair. Even sitting down, he was nearly the same height as she was, a fact she was grateful for as she leaned over him, catching his face in her hands. 

One more breath and she kissed him. Her right hand slid into his hair around the back of his head, gently tugging the strands in case he tried to pull away. Her left hand cupped his scarred cheek, thumb gently tracing the ridge of his cheekbone. She moved her lips over his with a soft moan, coaxing him to respond. 

Sandor froze at the sudden press of her body on him, her lips on his. It was dangerous, rushing at him like that, but he had enough presence of mind not to hurt her. He was more stunned by her directness, and by her undisguised desire. Sansa was no virgin, of that he was certain, but this? He felt his own face flush: it wasn't as if he had not thought of it. He had the same male desires as any other man when they looked at Sansa Stark. Sansa was vulnerable and feminine, a beauty after which anyone could pine and ache. Not weak, though he still felt protective of her. But he felt greater sensations than just that toward her, urged on by her touch and the sounds she uttered. "Sansa." 

She panted softly as their lips parted, allowing him to speak, though she kept her forehead pressed against his. "Sandor." She whispered his name like a prayer, "Please. I've never known pleasure at a man's touch and you would never hurt me. You're the only one I trust for this... please?" 

_What had those monsters put her through?_ he pondered, realizing all too well what she meant. He had meant it when he said that he would never hurt her, but he was also painfully aware of his own horrid appearance, and he knew that he was the furthest thing from a gentleman. "There was a time the sight of me terrified you, little bird," he murmured, holding her still on his lap. "Are you really so desperate? There are far better men here for this. Men who could be tender like the knights in the songs." 

“You are the only one I trust,” Sansa repeated, her voice quavering. “You’re the only one that I’ve dreamed of taking me and not woken up in a cold sweat. It was always you.” She stayed pressed against him, straddled across his hips with ease, as if it were the most natural place in the world for her. He was warm and solid against her, almost warmer than the fire at her back. “Please, Sandor… I want you.” 

It was fairly clear that he wanted her too, if his body’s responses were any indication. He felt as if he could drown in her Narrow-Sea-blue eyes, so close to his own. With a hungry growl he kissed her of his own accord, with true determination, savoring the lingering taste of wine and sweetness on her lips. 

Encouraged, Sansa moved her hands to his shoulders, though her fingers only met metal and leather. With a small groan of frustration, she nipped at his bottom lip. Her fingers plucked at the leather strap that held the pauldron to the gorget, somehow managing to loosen it. “Your armor, Sandor, is doing far too much to protect you from me,” she complained between eager kisses. “You may have to help me release you from this iron cage you’ve sealed yourself in.” 

"This armor is all that protects me from those undead fuckers out there," Sandor replied, but he began to undo the many buckles and shed that protection, batting away her assistance. He paused when he had discarded all but his breeches and shirt, reaching for her and drawing her close. "Your turn," he insisted. 

She swallowed and nodded, carefully lifting herself from his lap and stepping back, the fire behind her, creating a sunburst halo through her bright hair. She pushed her cloak off, letting it pool around her feet. Her furred robe swiftly followed, leaving her only in her thin shift and smallclothes. A few steps and she stood between his knees, leaning over slightly; she tugged at the hem of his shirt. Unbeknownst to her, the collar of her shift gaped in such a way that offered Sandor a glimpse of pale, milky skin. Just above her left breast, a long, thin, still pink scar arched its way from breastbone to inner arm. 

He traced the scar with a fingertip, from inner arm upward. Her skin was smooth and clear of blemish, other than the scar; as flawless as polished marble, in his eyes. Better than marble, because she was warm and soft and living. He could hear her little gasps of breath, feel her tremble under his single finger. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to draw her close, to hold her and protect her from the darkness surrounding them. 

She shivered at the touch, but not with dread. His fingers were thick, rough, callused from the sword and axe; and they felt wonderful on her skin. "Sandor," she whispered his name, pulling his shirt up and off. Even without armor, he was a massive man, broad-shouldered and thickly muscled, dark hair covering his chest and dusting his arms. Scars, both old and new, littered his body all over, some neat and thin, others twisting and gnarled. Even with his armor set aside, he smelt of leather and metal and something underneath that was entirely him, a wild scent of earth, a scent that had teased at her nostrils in her dreams. 

She straddled his lap once more, balancing herself on his knees, resting her hands open on his chest, sliding then up to his shoulders and arms and then back again. "I had convinced myself that I remembered you being so large only because I was so little. It seems my memory did not betray me after all," she said, her voice warm with appreciation. She leaned in again to kiss him, and she deepened it by using her tongue to coax him forward. 

He ran his hands beneath her shift, over her sides and across her back. She was so beautiful, a vision of the very Maiden incarnate, in his arms. Warm with the wine and lust, he was growing hard just at the thought of what he would feel like inside her. By the gods, the sounds she made! He shifted, holding her up enough so he could shove down his breeches and kick them away. 

Though she dared not look down yet, Sansa pulled her shift over her head, arching her back to do so with some modicum of grace, the movement thrusting her breasts out towards him. Her wolf clip clattered to the floor, letting her hair fall free in loose waves. She shimmied closer to him, bracing herself on his shoulders. Only her small-clothes separated them now, the cloth thin and already wet. She could feel his length pressing between her legs. "Sandor..." she gasped his name and leaned closer to hold him tightly, pressing soft kisses along his scarred cheek and against the strong muscles between his neck and his shoulder.

He was so hard, pulsing hard and eager, but he was determined to pleasure her as she deserved. He winced at her against his cheek, hesitating. He was not gentle: any experience he had with women had been with whores, who had to be paid handsomely to allow him to fuck them, always from behind where they couldn't see him. It was very rarely that he bothered indulging that particular urge, nor was he one for rape. He knew what damage he could inflict on her even unintentionally, though, and again he felt that he was ill-suited to her request. 

Rational thought was becoming more difficult by the moment then, however, and he turned his focus to Sansa. His hands cradled her face, pulling her into a seeking kiss of his own, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, growling softly at the taste of her. His hands moved, tough palms against her soft flesh, his thumbs grazing her hardening nipples as he drew her body closer. 

With a gentle cry, she arched against his hands. She swore softly, covering his hands with her own, not to stop him but to guide him. "That feels good." she encouraged him. Unconsciously, she began a slight rocking motion with her hips, just barely rubbing herself against his cock. 

Carefully, tenderly, Sandor lowered his mouth to her breast, one hand sliding down and behind her hip to support her backside while the other hand fell between her legs. Unwinding her small clothes, he tossed them away, fingers fanning along the wet folds as tenderly as he was able. The tip of his thumb found the point he had been seeking at her apex, and he moved his hand like waters in a tide pool, relishing Sansa's response. 

Sansa had been about to say something, but all words were cut off by a semi-stifled cry. No one had ever touched her like this, except for herself. Her hips canted eagerly, seeking more friction, soft folds soaking his fingers. “I won’t… be able to… keep my balance…” she managed to gasp out, clinging to his strong shoulders in a desperate attempt to steady herself. “Please… bed…” was all she could say, voice pleading sweetly. 

Sandor was quick to oblige, lifting her in his hands and carrying her to the bed. He expected her to crouch on all fours, back to him, as he settled her onto the furs. He was rock hard and barely able to hold back from pushing his way into her welcoming heat. He sat back on the bed and tried not to touch himself to relieve the ache before he could feel Sansa’s flesh against him again. Sandor did not want to put his pleasure before hers. 

Sansa paused. Ramsey had almost always taken her from behind and she feared if she couldn't see Sandor, she might become lost in events that she had hoped to bury in her psyche and never again unearth. Licking her lips, she settled back on the furs of her bed. "I want to be able to see you... to know that it's you and no one else." 

"See me?" he echoed, startled. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd want to look at him, ; he wouldn’t fool himself into thinking she had chosen him for this because of his beauty. She had a full view of him now, but she did not betray any sign of disgust or fear. "Just lay back," he suggested softly, dropping to his knees in front of her and pulling her toward him. 

Sansa did as he bade, lying back on the furs, arms bracing herself on either side as she took a deep breath. Looking up at him, the firelight was kind on his form, shadows and hair covered his scarred side. For a moment, she thought she could see what he would have been, had Gregor not brutalized him so viciously as a child. He had sharp, battle-worn features, and though Sandor was no beauty in truth, there had always been something undeniably attractive about him, his strength and breadth. His expression was gentle, grey eyes seeking hers with a sort of uncertainty. She offered him a gentle smile, reaching up to him with both hands. 

Sandor met her in the offered embrace, cradling her to him as he stroked her hair. It felt like coming home. Like the battle that waited for them both once it was over had never existed and would somehow cease to exist after that moment. Kissing her face and neck, he worked down across her collar to her breasts again, slowly settling her back on the bed. He grasped her hips and lifted her, lowering his head between her legs. "Watch, then, if you want, little bird," he muttered. 

The sound of his voice, rough with emotion, made her moan softly. "Gods... you make my blood sing." she whispered to him, looking down at him with trusting eyes. Margaery had told her of this, once, when she was still just a girl in King’s Landing, though Sansa had never personally experienced the sweet thrill of a powerful man with his head bent between her thighs.  


The first taste of her almost made him weep with desire and frustration, and soon his hands joined his mouth, his thumb circling that hidden pearl as he stroked one finger after another within her. He wanted nothing more than to rise up and replace his fingers with his cock, but there would be time enough for that. 

Sansa swore in a most unladylike manner, spreading her legs wider and reaching down to grip his hair. She did not pull him away, however, as she clearly enjoyed his attentions. "Sandor... Sandor..." she panted his name over and over, the pitch of her cry rising. Her hips began to tremble sharply as she neared her crest. She came in great spasms, her body clenching hard at his questing fingers, her wetness soaking his beard. 

Smiling, a chuckle rumbled in his chest as Sansa clenched around his fingers. One of his hands snaked up to stifle her cries as he rocked back on his haunches. "Shhh, now; don't sound a false alarm," he reminded her. Hauling himself onto the bed beside her, he held her against him as she shook and gasped, clean fingers threaded in her hair. He had softened slightly by concentrating on her, but was already regaining the momentary loss. 

“Where did you learn to do a thing like that?” she cuddled against his chest, hands sliding up and down his shoulder blades. She pressed heated, open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone and chest, utterly compelled to keep touching him. 

Each of her kisses felt like lightning on his skin, the weight of her against his side a warm comfort in contrast. "It's not so much being taught than paying attention.” The truth was, he had simply gone on instinct for much of it, wanting to taste her and feel her pleasure. 

"You're not done yet though," she pointed out, one hand sliding along his side, then tracing the curve from his hips inwards and downwards. Gathering her courage, she ran her fingertips along his cock, closing her eyes with a soft gasp. "Oh... oh my..." she whispered, almost more to herself than to him, "You're big." 

"I am, indeed," he agreed. "And no, I'm not done...yet." He drew her up, urging her on top of him. 

She gave a small squeak of surprise as he lifted her and rolled so she could straddle his hips, her hair spilling over her shoulders. "You want me on top?" she asked, shifting uncertainly, trying to figure out how to spread her legs wide enough to ride him while still maintaining her balance. 

“It will be easier for you. Trust me.” Sandor urged her, stroking a hand across her thigh to reassure her. 

She reached down between them, fingers curling around his cock, stroking him a few times and guiding the thick head against her folds. With a shaking breath, she adjusted her hips and slowly sank down, easing his length inside of her slick opening. Achingly slowly, she rocked down on him, moaning softly as he stretched her, the sensation utterly delicious. She could feel every throb of his heartbeat... or was it hers? She did not know, but she certainly knew that he felt amazing. She swore once she was fully seated on him, his length buried within her in a blinding blur of sensations both pleasant and painful. 

Sandor lay still, reveling in the sensation of her surrounding him, until he had to move, thrusting and rocking as gently as he could as Sansa rode him. She was slick enough to take the length of him, but soon she began to grip him, and his pace became more frenzied. "Fuck," he hissed again and again as Sansa matched him in a kind of primal dance. Sandor began to worry that he might hurt her in his pace, so he gripped her face between his hands and gently murmured to her, “Look at me.” Sansa obeyed, the uncertainty that had been in her eyes before melting away in sight of his support and kindness. Sansa rode him harder, working toward her second peak for the night, and Sandor couldn’t hold himself back any longer. Stars burst behind his eyes as he came into her, too consumed to remove himself first. 

The rush of heat tipped her over the edge, her body clenching around him, pulsing in strong waves of pleasure. His name slipped from her lips again as she struggled to hold herself upright, wrists and elbows shaking. Tears from the force of her emotion stung at her eyes, though she valiantly tried to keep them from falling. She gave up on remaining upright, leaning down on his broad chest and nuzzling her face against his neck. “Thank you…,” she whispered, her voice tinged with tears. “That was… I had no idea…” she rambled, half sobbing against him. Not tears of sadness or fear, for certain, but she was otherwise uncertain of what drove the emotion to spill over in such a display. 

Sandor held her close, calming her with a low rumbling hum as he softened and slipped out of her. Her tears concerned him despite her astonished praise; he had done his best to be gentle, but any intense motion, any perceived violence, might have recalled her past encounters, and he hadn't wanted that. She had faced him and allowed him to take pleasure from not only her body but her gaze, and he couldn't express how torturously intimate it had felt. "That is what you should have had from the start, little bird. You are a lady, the finest lady that breathes, and you deserve to be adored by someone nobler and more worthy than I am." Carefully he rolled to the side, laying her down and wrapping them both in the many furs draped over the bed. 

She clung to him tightly, pressing soft kisses to his chest and shoulders. His words took a moment to sink in and she smiled through her lessening tears. "I am the finest lady that breathes?" she asked, half laughing at the absurd amount of pleasure that idea brought her. Yes, she knew she was lovely to look at, she'd been told as much ever since she was a young girl. But the idea that even jaded, dismissive Sandor Clegane thought her the finest creature in the world made her blush. 

He smiled at her obvious delight at his compliment. "I've said it often enough! You are a fine lady befitting fine surroundings.” he reiterated. He brushed away her tears with the back of one hand. "You deserve better," he muttered. "You deserve more than this." He sighed. 

She grinned saucily at him. "Fuck what I deserve. This is what I want," she said in a fair imitation of his Southern accent. Leaning up, she kissed the slanted corner of his mouth. "You are what I want." 

She paused a moment, biting her bottom lip as she met his eyes. "I love you, Sandor. I've loved you... since you rescued me from that mob. Maybe even before then, I just didn't know anything from anything yet. I wish I had gone with you during Blackwater. I wish I'd kissed you. For a long time, I actually convinced myself that I had kissed you. If only because that would have been my first kiss and it would have been on our terms." 

She realized she was babbling and bit her lip again to silence herself. "I-I don't mean to put all of this on you the night of a battle. But... I would never forgive myself if you died without knowing... if I died without telling you." 

He was yet again astonished by Sansa’s vulnerability. He knew she wasn't blind, and her fear of him at the beginning had been genuine. He was old enough to be her father and had been far less than decent to her in times past. But he also understood her need to confess her childhood fantasy, especially at that moment. He had loved her almost from the first moment he had seen her, although he had no idea of what love was then, and hadn't been willing to indulge such tender emotions, either. He had been motivated by darker, crueler feelings then. Sansa was strong, but she wasn't a warrior: she should have had a life of comfort and indulgence a woman of her station expected, not spending the last moments of it naked, desperate and clinging to him, of all people. "We're not dead yet, little bird," he said firmly as he kissed her forehead. "But I'm not going to have those undead cunts take us naked and unarmed, either." 

She laughed softly. "Sandor, even naked, you are never unarmed. You could probably just punch them hard enough to make the entire army fall down in defeat." She resumed pressing soft kisses to his collarbone, enjoying the slight purr the caress elicited from him. “I like your voice. It's quite nice when you aren't barking at someone." 

"If that was all that it took, I'd willingly wade in, swinging," he chuckled. "But I've seen those fuckers, and I'd rather not offer them more to bite and tear at." He did enjoy that she appreciated his voice, and the kisses on his bare chest were surprisingly arousing. 

Seeing his enjoyment in her attentions, Sansa shifted so she was slightly above him, able to kiss more of his chest and neck. She wanted to please him as much as he had pleased her. It was true that he had just spilled in her, but she knew he’d been concentrating hard on not hurting her or frightening her. Fingers splayed, she ran her right hand along his side, moving gently along his strong muscles. Sweeping upwards, she caressed along his ribs and chest, fingers passing one by one over a small brown nipple. 

“Sandor…” she whispered against his ear, panting softly. “Tell me what you like… please?” 

He shivered as she grazed his nipple. He was unaccustomed to being touched this way, and he found himself becoming aroused again. "What I like? Well, I like what you're doing now, and I like what we just did. I like doing more than just fucking; I like pleasuring you. I like watching you and hearing you and tasting you..." He glanced down; he was definitely getting ready for another round of lovemaking. It was almost laughable: Winterfell could be attacked at any moment, without warning. By all reason, they should stop, dress, and be waiting with weapons in hand when that moment arrived. Perhaps it was the waiting itself, or the very real possibility of dying, that added to the arousal, but he just laid back and surrendered to Sansa's attention. 

She moaned against his ear, his words and voice adding to her own desire. "Keep talking..." she whispered to him, rising up to straddle his thighs, looking down at him with darkened eyes. She leaned down, caressing him with both hands, tracing scars, following the lines of his muscles. Even the feel of his heartbeat gathering speed under her palm gave her pleasure. She bent down, bracing herself on his shoulders. He seemed to have liked it when her fingers passed over his nipple before. This time, she slid her mouth over his chest, catching one between her lips gently and sucking. 

"Fuck!" he groaned, writhing beneath her as the shock of pleasure lanced over his skin like lightning straight to his cock. "What do you want me to say, little bird?" It would be difficult to say much more than obscenities if she continued doing that. 

"Anything you want," she whispered, flicking her tongue against him. "Swear. Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you want me to do. What you want to do to me. Anything..." 

With a grunt he arched his back. He was getting harder; trapped between her slick thighs and his belly, his cock stiffened and pulsed with each pass of her tongue. "I want you to keep doing that," he hissed, "Ah, fuck..." He wove his fingers through her hair, urging her on. 

Swearing was a normal part of Sandor’s everyday conversation skills, but hearing him use such words in passion was a different animal entirely. Sansa moaned softly, glad that she was able to rouse him in such a way, even after their earlier coupling. She kept sucking on one nipple, using her fingers to play with the other. 

His balls were aching and he was fully erect: he wasn't going to last. He wished he could reach her and give to her as much as she was giving to him, but the position wouldn't allow for it. "Little bird," he panted, "I'm close, so fucking close..." He pushed up, rubbing up and down the slick length of her. He was going to burst, and part of him wanted to find her entrance and shove inside her, hard and raw enough to fill her again, but he didn't want to change anything as he approached climax. 

The sound of her name on his lips, almost begging her to finish him off, made her give a small cry. She reached down between them, fingers curling around his cock, stroking carefully. She gasped, barely able get her fingers around him. He was so hard, but the skin was so tender and soft, like a length of iron covered in silk. Curious, she explored further, fingers rifling through the coarse, dark hair just above his length. His balls were heavy and swollen, pulled up tight against his body. Again, the skin she palmed over was silky-soft and very hot. The sheer contrast between hard and soft, the heat and the remainder of her own slick on him, it all was intensely arousing to her. 

This man was hers. And no one else's. 

His hips bucked up at her touch, and with a roar he came in hot pulses between them. Nothing else mattered; the walls could have crumbled to rubble and they could have frozen in ice and he wouldn't have cared, so long as he had felt this... 

She stroked him through his completion, prolonging it as best she could. She could feel him shaking beneath her; hear the catches in his breath. “I’ve got you,” she whispered against his ear. “I won’t let go of you. Breathe, love. It’s all right… just breathe.” She stilled her hand, using her free one to stroke his hair back from his face, uncertain if the wetness she found on his scarred cheek was from sweat or tears. 

For what felt like far too long, he did just that: gulped down air and tried to steady himself. He was surprised to discover his face was damp and tear-stained, as if some inner well of emotion had overflowed, too. "Sansa," he murmured, again and again, as if the name could be a talisman. 

“Sandor,” she whispered his name against his mouth before kissing him deeply, soothing him down from his climax with gentle touches. “You’re all right, my knight. You’re all right,” she assured him, echoing the same words he’d said to her when saving her from the mob. 

It was a good thing there had been a long wait this night; he was completely exhausted in many ways, and was longing for deep and dreamless sleep. If things had been different, Sansa would take a long, cleansing bath in hot, scented water, and he would clean off and curl into the furs like a hibernating bear; both of them contented and at peace. What could have been passed through his vision like a dream: a peaceful existence as Lord and Lady of Winterfell, with no more bloodshed than from hunting parties. 

Sansa curled against him with a soft sigh, taking great comfort in his strong arms and the warm bulk of him. “Sleep, love…” she whispered, head tucked neatly under his jaw, one hand resting over his heart. Closing her eyes, she drowsily whispered against the hollow of his throat, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine… from this day until the end of my days..” 

She felt almost weightless, floating in warmth and darkness. Distantly, she could hear bells and shouts. She groaned, turning her face as though to cover her ears. "My lady!" she could hear Brienne's voice at the door, following by an armored fist pounding on it. "My lady, the dead have come!" 

Sansa shot up with a gasp, making to wake Sandor... only to find her bed empty, her own hand tucked between her legs. Seven hells... she had dreamt the entire thing? Tears of bitter disappointment pricked at her eyes, as she rose from her bed and quickly dressed. "Brienne! Go to your post, quickly! I will join Arya on the battlements. Be careful, my friend!" she called as she struggled into her gown and cloak, hastily combing and braiding her hair back.

Anger boiled inside of her. Anger that her dreams had not been real; that Sandor had once again claimed her when she least expected it. She had dreamt of him when she first bled, thought of him during her first kiss, during both of her disastrous weddings and even more disastrous wedding nights. So help her, Seven; if she managed to live through the rest of this night, she _was_ going to find Sandor Clegane and she was going to _make_ her dreams real.


End file.
